


till water falls

by shikae (39smooth)



Category: Team B (Band), iKON (Kpop)
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Rain, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/39smooth/pseuds/shikae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rain falls on Sunday morning, and so do they.</p>
            </blockquote>





	till water falls

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted april 2015 for [kpop olymfics](http://kpop-olymfics.livejournal.com/113164.html).

A child’s fingerprint, smudged against the glass. 

He raises a hand, and presses his little finger against it, wiping it off absently. He listens to the muffled voices coming from the speaker on the counter behind him, playing a radio drama rerun from the nineties. He thinks about the way his finger had matched up with the minuscule blot. Symmetry arises. Even in the parallel drops of rain that journey down the window-pane, searching for a new adventure. The great beyond. What comes after the initial splatter.

Hanbin lifts his gaze to consider the situation outside. He doesn’t mind rain. He’s a fan of blinding weather, hot enough to tan and warm enough to melt an ice cream across his fingers. He likes the wind when it catches on the back of his snapback and gently ruffles the few hairs that stick out from under the flat bill. You catch the breeze in your palms and let it slip away between your fingers. You catch the sun in your eyes and let ardour settle in your lashes.

It is very easy to catch the rain. In your clothes, weighing you down with each step, as you make your way to the laundromat to do exactly just that: get your clothes wet in a whole different context. You catch other things, too. Chills, and illness, and the contagious blues that magnify with each crackle-snap of the skies above.

Hanbin settles back on the bench, tugging his phone out of his mostly-dry pocket. He’d been awoken this morning by a text from Bobby, a reminder of the basket of unimaginably filthy clothing sitting by the door, and their promise of taking turns to do the laundry.

Outside, a gaggle of children run for shade towards the nearest internet cafe; a man in a suit takes brisk steps without much care for anything other than the cup of hot coffee he’s precariously balancing along with a briefcase and a plastic file. 

The neighbourhood that they live in now is nice. Hanbin hadn’t wanted to move out of the place they’d shared with Jinhwan, initially, but Bobby had convinced him it’d be for the better (and besides, Jinhwan needed the space). They’re in their twenties, now. Twenty-four and twenty-five, him and Bobby. They’re independent (or, well, as independent as their contracts might allow). Their flat is a modest place a little nearer to the main company building now, but not too near. 

The whirring of the washing machines make his head spin. He puts his earphones in to block it out, a quick-paced number starting up. It’s a Sunday. It’s the perfect tune to wait out a laundry run to, tapping his foot along bleached tiles.

At seven in the morning on a Saturday, you’d be hard-pressed to find many people out in a place like this. There’s just the girl at the counter, face hidden behind yesterday’s _Hankyoreh_. A woman in her thirties, who gave him only a sparing glance before tipping her bag into a washer. A little boy sitting next to Hanbin who’s on ten-minute guard duty for his washer, his stubby legs swinging back and forth, his gaze trained on his smartphone as he plays Battle Cats with something close to a fervency.

Bobby calls, and Hanbin picks up on the second ring. “Hey,” he says, tugging his snapback around and pulling the headset piece of his earphones closer to his mouth, since no one can ever hear when he talks through it, the blasted thing. “You back already?” Bobby had taken the late flight back from the States, the weather yet again to blame for not being able to get an earlier time out.

“Mm,” answers Bobby, and there’s the sound of scuffling in the background, much like cardboard boxes being attacked by a small animal, “are you still there? The rain’s bad.”

“I know,” says Hanbin, “got caught in it just now. I’ll be back in an hour, maybe.”

“Hold up,” says Bobby, and the scuffling stops. “Sorry. Was looking for something. I’m coming over.”

“You’re going to get swarmed again,” says Hanbin, the corner of his mouth already inadvertently rising up in a half-smile, “remember the last time? Actually, when was the last time you weren’t followed, honestly? And you just got back.”

“I’ll wear a disguise,” comes Bobby’s answer instead. Hanbin rolls his eyes, because a hoodie, sunglasses, and a face mask are the worst combination for a disguise possible, and Bobby Kim never learns from his mistakes. “See you in five.”

Hanbin lets his phone fall to his side, tucking his snapback around again. It’s been years, now, and Bobby still has an impossible amount of fame attached to his name. Hanbin doesn’t think it’ll ever end for Bobby, really. Whereas Hanbin’s just content enough being able to write, to produce. To even be able to work. The group’s disbandment hadn’t come easy, but at least none of them had been out of a job.

The electronic bell sounds overhead. The bench creaks, and the little boy looks up for a second, before going back to his game. Warm, wet hands press a cup of coffee into his own, and Bobby smiles at him, crooked and easygoing as if he hadn’t just traversed across the street in three hundred miles per hour torrential rain. “You’re freezing. It’s seven in the morning.”

“The weather ceases for no man,” says Hanbin solemnly, “where’s your disguise?”

“Here,” replies Bobby, leaning against Hanbin’s shoulder, “nobody’s going to expect me leaving the house not in a disguise. Reverse psychology. Keep up with the times.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been a little too busy to research ways to evade the effects of celebrity disease.” Hanbin lifts the cup to his mouth, and savours the contrast between the hot steam and the cold outdoors.

“And that’s coming out of your mouth? Shocking.”

“Hush now,” says Hanbin, “a flock of teenage girls might overhear your dulcet, rasping tones from three blocks away, and come in to ask you for your signature on their foreheads.”

“Would you like one too?” asks Bobby sweetly, and Hanbin snorts. “Anything for my biggest fan.”

“Come on,” says Hanbin, a laugh bubbling in his throat now, “what about Joonkyung? After the last mixtape dropped, I swear, he was going to have an aneurysm listening to the last track. It was hilarious looking at his face the entire time. The man was in love.”

“I can’t help my voluminous charms.” Bobby winks, much too close and much too genuine a come-on, and Hanbin plays it off with a laugh-track he’s memorised by heart for public tapings. Not the single stutter that hangs off the back of it. Colds and chills and the blues aren’t the only things you can catch in the rain. Hanbin catches the tremolo that threatens to creep into his words, and lets it dissolve in friendly banter. “Ah?”

“Please,” says Hanbin, “do keep your charms at bay for the time being.”

Bobby pulls his cap off, runs a hand through his hair, and exhales. A few seconds pass between them, before Bobby murmurs, a throwaway comment more than anything, “That thing I was looking for, earlier? Found them. Our old photos. You know, from that trip. I brought them back with me.”

“Oh?” he says, but already Bobby is giving him that look, the one that says just exactly how much he knows about what Hanbin is thinking right now, and of course he does. Of course he does. “Yeah? What about it?”

Five years, five years and a few months and a couple of days ago, five years and many memories ago. A car, a trip, and a single, winding, never-ending road. Alcohol and pizza and teenage dreams projected onto adulthood during a week off, away from touring and performances and recording and practices. A flat tire, multiple stops to ask for directions, and tourist traps.

The sides of their hands brush. “There’s one,” begins Bobby, “where we’re lying in the grass, and literally—it’s just a really bad angle and your eyes are closed and my head looks twice as big than it usually does—but do you remember what we were talking about right before the photo?”

“No,” says Hanbin. _Yes_. He does. The grass had stuck to his back, along with the mud and the dirt and maybe a dandelion or two that he’d fallen on. Bobby had toppled down with him, the camera still in hand. Sunday morning in a field so far off the map they’d taken along with them that they had no idea how to get to the nearest town, after. 

A Sunday morning, a slow drive. No rain, just shine. The sun colouring their faces in, and their arms, and their hands, outstretched to feel the wind speeding past them on the road.

“You do,” observes Bobby, and he smiles. Not the one he keeps for just anyone. It’s the smile Hanbin wakes up to, the smile Hanbin sees in the mornings, the smile that he feels against the side of his throat and sees in the mirror when he’s washing his face and humming the song he’d tracked over in his head the night prior. His affection surges into action. It is terrifying.

The boy beside Hanbin gets up and leaves with his mother, who only furrows her brow at the notice of Bobby, probably wondering where she recognises him from. There are only two other people there now, those two people, and then him and Bobby.

“You know,” says Bobby, “I used to look at that photo and think, wow, Christ, we look ridiculous. Then, today, I looked at it again, and you know what?”

“What?” asks Hanbin, but he knows the answer. It’s the answer to a question that has danced around them for years and years. It’s the answer to the way Bobby curls his fingers over Hanbin’s wrist, not caring that anyone might be eavesdropping. It’s the answer to the hours and minutes and seconds Hanbin spends considering the symmetry of raindrops and their hands together.

“You had dirt on your face,” says Bobby, and he laughs, running a thumb over Hanbin’s jaw, “right here. You were smiling so wide, and I could practically hear your voice in my head, going, _‘this is all your fault.’_ I thought you looked perfect.”

“You’re doing this here?” says Hanbin, and there’s coffee in one of his hands and Bobby’s hand in his other and he can do nothing but wait for his heart to still. “Really? Of all the places?”

Bobby looks affronted. “And here I was, being romantic.”

“You’re being a sap, that’s what you are,” replies Hanbin. His tone slips momentarily on the last word, and it carries on into his next sentence. Hanbin regrets his inability to stop worrying about everything. “We’re in public, Jiwon.”

“Who cares,” whispers Bobby, and whatever he’s on, it must be endemic, because here Hanbin is, heart in his throat at the thought of someone overhearing them and knowing who they are and exactly what they’re talking about. Here Hanbin is, wondering what in the world brought this on, and completely forgetting about the washing that’s sitting. “Let people know.”

“It’ll ruin you,” says Hanbin, “we’ve talked about this before.” They have. Long-lasting arguments and disagreements. Hanbin still isn’t sure if it’s society that isn’t ready, or it’s just them. “You’ll get dropped.”

Bobby completely ignores his statement, and steamrolls on. “Hanbin,” he proclaims, still not loud enough to draw attention over the burring machines surrounding them, and Hanbin figures this is probably the best place of all places to ever have a conversation like this, considering the circumstances. “Please.” His voice falls, slips, and glides into something tender. “Please,” he repeats, and Hanbin can see the rain in his eyes, something wild, something wanting. “I told my mum.”

“You—” begins Hanbin, brow furrowed. Bobby never mentioned it. “When?”

“A few days ago.” Bobby shrugs, half-smiling. “She cried a little. Then, she hugged me, and told me to be happy. Would you believe it? I didn’t get disowned.”

“Oh,” says Hanbin, and he sets the cup of coffee on the floor, before reaching over to place a hand on Bobby’s cheek, whispering, “oh.”

“She also said,” adds Bobby, in higher spirits than Hanbin would have expected, “to make you happy. So, can I make you happy by telling the world just how much I love you?”

Hanbin shivers, and clutches at Bobby’s shoulder. “Say that again?”

“I love you,” says Bobby, and he smiles, wide and warmth-inducing and everything Hanbin has ever worshipped, and he’s been blessed with someone who makes him feel brand new with every single breath. “Really,” he says, “I do.”

It’s the nineties’ radio drama rerun unfolding in real life. It’s an amateur short film that catches people off guard with the last minute of fifteen. It’s a contemporary romance novel with a too-hopeful ending for much too hopeful main characters. 

The girl at the counter glances over her newspaper for a blip of a second. The cup of coffee on the floor goes lukewarm. The woman at the other end collects her things and starts up a dryer. The downpour shudders to a halt.

Hanbin kisses him, tipping forward to catch his willing, wanting affection. He can feel Bobby’s pulse under his fingertips, the little scrapes of stubble along his jaw from a shave missed this morning, the heat of Bobby’s tongue along his lower lip. Bobby turns his head, and catches Hanbin’s fingers, and kisses those too, brief and quiet and unassuming, before pressing their lips together again. So this is what the sun tastes like, thinks Hanbin.

The woman in the corner is giving them strange looks now. Hanbin finds them much easier to disregard than he thought they would. He imagines this will be splattered across the tabloids within the week. Their faces, or maybe, if the paparazzi gets lucky, a compromising photo of them together. 

But then, Bobby murmurs, “Bet Jinhwan’ll cry when he hears,” and Hanbin bursts out into laughter, unadulterated and completely joyful, and he leans in to kiss Bobby again, one hand reaching for his again. “He’s always been a romantic at heart.”

“He’ll hug us both and tell us to invite him to our wedding while the tears stream down his face,” says Hanbin, and Bobby snickers under his breath, both of them stalling on the thought of marriage, Hanbin knows. “It’ll be hilarious.”

The slow-rising sun tickles their gazes when they walk out of the place some time later, bags in their arms. Puddles line the sidewalks, and it’s an irresistible urge to jump around in them that strikes Hanbin out of the blue, making him smile to himself for no reason. 

Bobby notices. “Love looks good on you,” he teases, and Hanbin just slugs him in the arm, snorting. “More than good, really. Perfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” says Hanbin. Except you, in all your imperfection.

Paint a picture in the frost on the glass with a finger, watch raindrops race each other to the ground. Live life with another, and rest your bones with them. It’s the slow roadtrips and fighting over the warm side of the bed and wearing each other’s clothing on accident.

The rain falls on Sunday morning, and so do they, again and again and again.


End file.
